


Hold Your Colour

by otherworldviolet



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherworldviolet/pseuds/otherworldviolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faquarl comes to Bartimaeus with a proposition. Set during Ring of Solomon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for bitchy Bartimaeus, grumpy Faquarl, and strange spirit-pseudo-sex.

Dusk hung dimly over the desert, cloaking the landscape in its cool embrace. Keen senses could perhaps still hear the bustle of the late night bazaars or catch the lingering sweetness of incense on the breeze, but (as with most things) the vast emptiness that bordered Jerusalem seemed to swallow all but the brightest sound.

 

Under a particularly robust sycamore just outside the city gates reclined a handsome youth, the bare skin of his back against the rough bark, one lean leg pulled against his dark chest. From a distance he seemed perfectly serene. Peaceful. It was only under closer inspection that one might notice the deep pools of melancholy in his black eyes.

 

To put it bluntly, I was in a mood.

 

Not thirty minutes previous, I had _again_ been on the receiving end of Khaba's damned essence-flail. But it wasn't the pain that was bothering me this time. Pain, like all indignities we noble spirits suffer in your world, was transient, and my essence was healing. No, this time my issue was with the off-hand way the magician had gone about it. Like he barely cared either way about my punishment. Like he barely remembered what it was _for_.

 

I'm no masochist, but there is a certain pleasure in irritating a magician so much he can barely gabble out the syllables of the Systemic Vice. Khaba's annoying penchant for keeping a cool head rather lessened the fun of it.

 

Usually in such circumstances I would find myself a couple of imps to chew on and then use the extra energy to tell everybody within earshot exactly who they were mistreating. But my essence ached with the singular tiredness that comes from particularly long stints on earth. I was definitely overdue for some me-time.

 

I had thought outside the city walls would be far enough to avoid any annoying visits from my fellow slaves, but I had barely allowed myself to drift into thoughts of happier times when the tree above me creaked with a sudden weight and a small shower of browning leaves fell onto my handsome features.

 

I cracked open one irritated almond shaped eye and peered up into the branches. I shut it again.

 

“ _Occupied_ , Faquarl.”

 

The bedraggled black vulture tilted its head at me, as though surprised to see me there. In one quick movement it jumped down, digging its long claws into the ground. I remained stubbornly immobile, hoping he would get the hint that I wasn't in the mood for any of his rubbish at the moment. Unfortunately for me, Faquarl was always a bit thick when it came to non-verbal cues. There was a rustle of greenery, and the portly Nubian* had joined me under the tree.

[In the two thousand years of our begrudging acquaintance I had never known Faquarl to take an attractive form if he could possibly help it. Even when King Shulgi of Ur had ordered us to plump out his harem to show off to visiting dignitaries, Faquarl's idea of a beautiful courtesan had been built like a tree stump with arms like a baker. The king put him in the back.]

 

I sighed deeply. “What do you want?”

 

“Peace. Quiet. Five minutes away from Chosroes,” he offered.

 

“Stop ruining mine then. Find your own tree.”

 

He made a growling noise deep in his throat. I smirked a little. It was good to know I could still get under    
_someone's_   
skin in five seconds flat. 

 

I allowed myself a leisurely stretch. “I mean, I know you like to bask in my radiance, but your obsession with me does get a little trying at times.”

 

“Hn, the only spirit with an obsession with Bartimaeus of Uruk is Bartimaeus of Uruk. I heard you, mincing about around the Sheep Gate. It was sickening.” Faquarl snorted. “And more than a little pathetic.”

 

“Is it my fault that barely anyone in this backwater has heard of me? Can you blame me for trying to enlighten them?”

 

“I can blame you for most things.” Faquarl affected nonchalance. “If anything goes wrong while you're around, it usually ends up being your fault, either by caprice or simple incompetence.”

 

“Oh, and you're so perfect, Mr I-get-confused-by-Egyptian-measuring-systems-and-everyone-else-has-to-clean-up-after-me.”

 

“Those numbers would have made _much_ more sense in Akkadian! _Forgive_ me for not spending as much time in the wretched place as you.”

 

“Your _face_ is wretched.”

 

And it was too. He looked like he wanted to take a bite out of me. “I should have known better than to come here expecting intelligent conversation,” he spat through gritted teeth.

 

I couldn't help a smirk. “I'm surprised you know what intelligent conversation _is_.”

 

By this point I fully expected to have annoyed Faquarl so much he'd leave in a huff, but he surprised me by obviously swallowing the angry retort that would have escalated our argument into full-blown fisticuffs and forcing himself to calm down. I looked over at him out of the corner of my eye.

 

He looked a little off.

 

Annoyance still lingered around the downward curve of his mouth, but for Faquarl that was pretty much normal. The differences weren't in his expression at all. They were subtle, yes, but became obvious when I realised what to look for. His shaved head, always shiny with sweat when I looked down on it in the quarry, glowed in the moonlight as if waxed in the Egyptian style. The whites of his eyes were actually white. Even the round belly stuck out markedly less than I was used to.

 

He was sitting rather closer to me than was usual as well.

 

“Another minute of your company and I'll have completely forgotten,” he said sulkily.

 

I magnanimously decided to let him have that one, and conceded the point with a graceful shrug.

 

Then, I felt it.

 

Faquarl's expression hadn't changed – he still had his eyes fixed on some point straight ahead of him with his face all twisted like he'd choked on a lemon – but there was no ignoring the

hesitant way the back of his fingers brushed the smooth skin of my upper arm.*

[It's strange, but we djinn usually only touch each other in combat (wherein one usually barely has time to blow one's opponent to pieces and/or rattle off witticisms) so it wasn't often that I had the opportunity to feel the hum of another spirit's essence against my own. It felt... nice. Even if it was just Faquarl.]

 

“How long's it been?” I asked mildly.

 

“Seven years. On and off.”

 

“Mostly on?”

 

“Of course.”

 

His fingers traced the curve of my elbow.

 

“What makes you think I'm as desperate as you are?” I sniffed. “I could name twenty djinn I'd rather cosy up to.”

 

“ _I_ could name a hundred,” he sneered back.

 

I looked at him.

 

He looked at me.

 

“But you _are_ here,” he conceded.

 

“It is terribly convenient,” I agreed. With, I must admit, a bit of a raised eyebrow. He had clearly sought me out with exactly this in mind, but I wasn't about to embarrass the both of us by drawing attention to it.

 

“Just don't bite my ear off like last time*.”

[ _Last time_ : about three hundred years prior. Faquarl told me to shut up and do something better with my mouth. I did.]

 

“Hey, you're the one propositioning _me_ , bucko.” My lips curled back, exposing my pointed teeth. “You should know by now what you're getting into. Bartimaeus of Uruk bows to no- oof!”

 

Here, I admit, he did get the drop on me. He descended upon me like a starving dog after a bone. It wasn't my fault though: Faquarl was like an old lady with her change purse when it came to spending his energies. Even after seven years' hard toil in Solomon's Jerusalem, there was a density to his essence that I would have found difficult to deal with even on a good day, let alone in my current state of perforation.

 

And that was it, wasn't it: in a nutshell, as it were. Why he was here. He was in pain, and so was I. This would help, for a time at least.

 

We spirits miss, deep in our essence, the sense of togetherness,of _not-being-alone_ , that comes from being one and many at the same time. Changing form was a solitary way to bring respite. Faquarl and I, however... Well, we were desperate enough to attempt another: a swive.*

[ _Swive_ : the blending of two or more spirits for fun and profit. Only advisable to attempt with a spirit of both a similar level and a strong force of personality. In a way, this made Faquarl almost perfect – our mutual dislike meant I could rely on him to get his essence out of mine as soon as we were done.]

 

So, there I was, wounded, winded and _wedged_ between the trunk of a sycamore and a sweaty, stout, sour-faced Nubian. He glared down at the bare-chested body of my handsome Sumerian like the well-sculpted muscles offended him. For my part, I could barely move – my legs were squashed underneath him and at any rate, he had grown an impressive set of claws and they were prickling the skin of my neck.

 

An ordinary djinni may have been intimidated at this, but not me.

 

“You could make yourself a bit more appealing, you know,” I said thoughtfully, arching into his annoyingly feather-light touches. “ _I'm_ not so shallow that I – _mmm_ – judge based on appearances, but others may not be so kind.”

 

His eyes glowed golden in the starlight. One hand moved over my bare skin, alternately scratching and caressing, the other palm flat over a beautifully formed pectoral.

 

“I'm just saying, you're lucky you don't have to scrape the bottom of the barrel and swive with an imp.”

 

It was a cheap shot I admit, and not even particularly clever. But what can I say? I was distracted. Faquarl's teeth were very white. And nicely pointed. And he kept running his tongue over them.

 

Of course, I stayed cool as a cucumber when he leaned down, golden eyes fixed on mine. He paused, his hooked nose inches from my delicate one. “Little Bartimaeus.” Faquarl's voice, always pleasantly cultured and urbane, practically purred. “Your form's slipping.”

 

I barely had time to glance at my feet (which were, embarrassingly enough, starting to look a little melty around the edges) before he had his claws digging into my collarbone. I couldn't stifle a hiss. The power flowing under those hands... For once I was thankful for his stinginess. The idea of melding my energies with _that_ made my perfect facsimile of human skin come out in goosebumps.

 

Faquarl laughed then, right into the curved shell of my left ear. “Pretty little Bartimaeus. Always have to look so perfect.” At any other time I would have expressed my offense at the 'little' part, but by this stage I was concentrating on keeping my fingers from dissolving. Besides, as far as bare-faced flattery goes, he hadn't done too badly. “Maybe one day I'll understand why.”

 

“Style, Faquarl,” I managed. “Some of – _oooh_ – us have it.”

 

“Hmm,” he hummed. The sound reverberated right through me. I felt my handsome Sumerian going soft around the edges. It was time to assert myself.

 

I leaned my head forward and sunk my teeth into him.

 

The noise he made was _exquisite.*_

[Halfway between a high-pitched feline wail and a trumpeting elephant, for those who want to know.]

 

Faquarl responded by doing something to me on the seventh plane that I'd rather keep to myself,* and I was done. My essence exploded into silvery mist. Faquarl barely had enough time to let out a smug little chuckle before I descended upon him, insinuating myself into all his little crevices, all the little places where he couldn't hide from his desperation for this. He stopped his sniggering sharpish. I drew the thrum of our essences into the same rhythm. With a strangled little cry, he broke.

[On the seventh he may have been uncomfortably tentacular to look at, but he was surprisingly pleasant to snuggle up to.]

 

It was like being in the Other Place, and it wasn't. There was the comforting feeling of not just being yourself, but there wasn't enough chaos to be completely lost in. But I was lost in Faquarl, in the curl and the speed of him, in his weariness, his anger at his own powerlessness, his pride in his strength, his distaste for Jerusalem in particular and earth in general, and buried deep under blankets of resentment, his affection for – 

 

 _  
**Bartimaeus' fires burn hotter than mine, swirl faster than mine. Even now I can't help the comparison. Less power, certainly, but foolishly used, always so foolish -**   
_

 

We were on the edge of something, holding our colours against each other until every border was breached and this little world -

 

 _  
**There is no beauty here why does he persist in trying to mirror something that isn't here -**   
_

 

He was like me, and something other. We were one, and so unlike. And, for those long seconds when we brought the Other Place to us, and the paradox didn't matter.

 

 _  
**Stop looking at him why can't I stop looking -**   
_

 

But you can't keep that sort of thing up forever, not in this world.

 

Time crept back to us, a painful reminder. Unwillingly, I poured myself back into a form (a sleepy ocelot, sleek of fur and round of eye) and curled up in the Nubian's lap. Faquarl idly scratched under my chin. I started up a gentle purr.

 

We enjoyed a kind of mutual hatred built on familiarity, he and I. I thought he was a hideous excuse for a spirit with no sense of humour; he was undoubtedly jealous of my many qualities. We made it work. But in that moment? You would be hard-pressed to find another spirit that I would have preferred to be with.

 

I would have been happy to doze like that, with a sycamore tree above and his hands in my fur, until the sunrise began our toil anew, but Faquarl evidently had other ideas.

 

“I haven't had a proper rest in the past two hundred and fifty years, you know.” He sounded tired. “Not since that damn business in Troy.”

 

“You've got some great stories to tell though,” I said, hoping that vague commiseration would shut him up.

 

“I can't rest, Bartimaeus. Not even in the Other Place. Not while I know this place is still here. Not while they know my name.”

 

I let out a wide, feline yawn. “Kill all the magicians then.” I butted my head against his palm. “I'll help you. We just need to find some idiot willing to let us loose.”

 

It was a little strange that I couldn't see him, but somehow knew he was smiling. His essence still echoed through me – it would for a few days to come. Being near him was... soothing.

 

At least for now.  


End file.
